


Postcards and Roses

by fabricdragon



Series: The Clown and the King [3]
Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Dubious Consent, Heavy BDSM, Knifeplay, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, not a good idea, not aa good example
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:38:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8652952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Follows Assassins Clowns and Kings, and refers HEAVILY to  the earlier stories.ok, changed my mind.  this is now a self contained  story  (still part of continuity)  but the next two stories were different enough that i want them to stand alone.  hence this story is now "complete"i will pick it up again in a new story.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bluemary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluemary/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Assassins, Clowns, and Kings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516552) by [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon). 



Eddie had gotten home, finally. The last series of missions had kept him busy for months, but not busy enough to keep from thinking about Adrian.

_I am NOT hooked on that…_ He trailed off the thought because he was, after all, a realist.

He took out the recording marked “Day 3”.  He smiled faintly.  He didn’t need to play it; he could playback every moment in his head.

He’d put Adrian up on the cross‑ spread eagled and with no leverage at all‑ gagged him, and gotten out the knives.

“No marks where it shows, right Adrian?” he’d laughed. “Do you know how much I can mess you up and still have you look good in a suit?”

THAT had gotten him worried.

Listening to him try to ‘reason with him’ while gagged had been funny as hell.

He blindfolded him and sharpened everything.  He knew Adrian’s hearing worked. The whisper of a top quality knife on a good hone was a thing of beauty, really. Then the smell of alcohol: that went right up the nose to the hind brain.  He actually did spend some time sharpening his knives, and cleaning them up‑why not, they needed it.

Then he worked him over with a flog and the violet wand, just a little, to bring his nerves up.

He’d only cut him once.

Just a surface nick, but the blood had welled up and started dripping.

Then he’d gotten out the slivers of ice and the hot oil and started ‘cutting him up’.  Between the adrenaline, the fact that a REALLY sharp knife doesn’t feel like much when it cuts you, and the fact that all he felt out of the first cut, the real one, was the blood dripping down….

_Heh._

Oil heated to body temperature dripping down your body feels about the same.

He’d had the collar on him of course, the one that was just a hair too tight, so the more he panicked the less he could swallow and breathe.

Every now and then he’d sharpen a knife a bit more.

He’d drugged him and taken him down with a whispered,  “Now that’s art”, before he’d knocked him out and cleaned him up.

He’d feigned complete innocence for hours after Adrian woke up.

“You sure none of those drugs cause hallucinations, Veidt?”

Being who he was he’d figured it out, after he calmed down enough to realize he had one cut on him: the first one.

Eddie never answered how he’d done it.  Just pointed out that asking him questions wasn’t begging and threatened to send him to a comfortable bed with anesthetic unless he got busy with his mouth.

Oh, that day was his favorite, or second favorite at least, after the first day when he took him down, of course:  that one had first place forever.

 

He was startled out of his reverie by a knock on the door.

After scaring a florist spitless, he took in the box: it was purple and gold, and Eddie wondered if it might blow up, or have cobras, or…

“Fuck it.” He opened it.

Inside was a bouquet of variously colored roses‑in a vase that looked ridiculously classy in his apartment‑and a note.

Handwritten in familiar script, in familiar purple ink, it read:

 

_Dear Eddie,_

_You told me once that I would be able to decide if I wanted to kill you, avoid you, or send you roses…_

_I haven’t ruled anything out yet, but I would be very much obliged if you could do me the same courtesy I did you, and send me a copy._

_Adrian_

_P.S.   A secure delivery person will arrive in a week, unless I hear otherwise._

 

After a few days thought he sent copies of every disk‑ except day 3‑ with a note:

 

Adrian,

A good magician, or comedian, never gives away how you did the trick.

You want the answer? You let me demonstrate the trick again, and you figure it out.

Eddie

 

He left after a few days on another mission‑ South America this time‑ and wasn’t home for a month.  The timing seemed very suspicious.

When he came home, there was ‑ inside his undisturbed apartment, behind the multiply locked door‑ a fresh bouquet of roses on his table, with a note:

 

_“You’re a bastard, Eddie.  I can respect that.”_

 

In another city, in a tower of gold, Adrian Veidt walked into his bedroom and locked the door.

He opened his computer and ran his finger down the files, labeled 1-7.  File number 3 was missing.

He looked down at the piece of mail that had arrived just a few days ago.

A single battered postcard, mailed almost three weeks ago, from Costa Rica:

 

 “Adrian,

Wish you were here.

Same answer as before, and no, you’ll never find the disk.

Eddie”

 

 

 


End file.
